Empty Beer Bottles
by FlyingCoffeeMug
Summary: Ian can't break because he doesn't have that liberty. It's how it was, how it is and how it always will be.
1. Chapter 1

Ian can't break because he doesn't have that liberty.

It's how it was, how it is and how it always will be.

It's Lip that notices it at first. Living with someone gives you the privilege of seeing every miniscule shift in them.

Lip wishes he noticed sooner. (Lip wishes he hasn't noticed at all)

It's in the twitch of Ian's fingers and the way he holds his cigarettes. It's the coiled muscles under his knuckles and the way they always stay tight, tight, tight (so fucking tight) all the time. It's the tension in his raised shoulders like he's holding himself back from breaking out of his own skin. It's the furrow in between the bridge of his eyebrows and the thin line of his lips pressed too hard together. It's his protruding jaw that's emphasized by the painful clench of his jaw. It's everything in his posture and the vibe he emits in the air. It's everything and nothing to do with Ian.

It's Ian and at the same time not Ian at all.

Lip (ever the smart fucker) notices things and he makes it his job to notice things when it comes to his family because sometimes Fiona is too busy barely making ends meet and the others are young. It's the older brother in him that grew up protecting Ian and instinct never goes away. So Lip spots it first (and maybe even last) and wonders how he never noticed before.

It's blatant when one day Frank comes in carrying the stench of vomit and whiskey around him and takes a swing at Ian for 'looking like that fucking whore' and successfully breaks his nose. Lip waits for Ian to spring up and hit Frank back because it would be justified.

He's surprised when all Ian does is stand there with blood gushing down his nose and staining his lips and white knuckles clenched around a pack and a lighter. He's even more shocked when all Ian does is storm out of the house.

Later that night Lip kicks off his shoes and sits on the bed where Ian is sitting cross legged and sporting a cold beer between his bony fingers. His nose is swollen and there are some flakes of blood under his jaw and on his mint green t-shirt.

"Why the fuck didn't you deck him back?" Lip asks out of curiosity and a sense of brotherly duty.

Ian looks up and stares at Lip for a good five seconds, his hands drumming the neck of the beer bottle as he contemplates his answer. He clenches the bottle tightly between his fingers and takes a large gulp before answering.

"I fucking told you before. If I hit him, then I'd kill him. No fucking in-between"

Lip stares at his brother and thinks that this should be the biggest tell that something just might not be right because Ian seems dead serious and the ever present warmth in his eyes is replaced with something that's _just not Ian_.

He nods at Ian and thinks that he should have noticed sooner that something might not be right with the ginger. Lip **wishes** he noticed sooner.

(Lip will later wish that he **never noticed** it at all.)

All of the Gallagher siblings have a certain level of fucked up in them that's factual and permanent. With the lifestyle they have been living it's kind of a given and probably as normal as breathing.

Fiona has abandonment and trust issues. (Don't they all?)

Lip has mommy and daddy issues that are physically present in the worst ways possible.

Carl is a self-proclaimed and family approved sociopath.

Debbie tried to drown a 'whore'.

Liam is Liam. (Not much to say about a baby)

Nobody notices that Ian might as well be the most fucked up out of all six of them because Ian has the best mask ever.

Ian has his smile (and is too fucked up for anyone to miss but they do).

Ian smiles and all is well because he's Ian and his ever shit eating grin is the proclamation of sunshine and rainbows.

Ian smiles and all is well.

(Except it isn't and only Ian knows this.)

It start's when Ian walks home with a cut eye and a split lip, smiling like he's high as a fucking kite, whistling Bob Marley under his breath.

Fiona looks up and stares at him from where she's making pancakes for dinner. Jimmy is nowhere in sight. Her eyes widen as she takes in his appearance and springs across the room clutching his face into her hands non-too gently.

"What the fuck happened to you?" she inquires as she turns his head from left to right, inspecting for further damage.

"No fucking clue" he mutters and moves away, ending the conversation then and there. Truth is Ian really has no fucking clue what happened. He can't recall even when he rakes the black corners of his mind trying to come up with an answer as to why he has a cut above his eye and why he feels so **fucking good.**

He's giddy and full of misplaced endorphins and he can't help it as his grin engulfs his entire face. His face hurts and he can't give three fucks about that either.

He just _is _at the moment and that's enough for him.

Fiona might think he's a headcase now.

(Ian thinks she might be right)

Ian can't break because he doesn't have that liberty.

It's how it was, how it is and how it always will be.

Mickey doesn't notice at first that something is off about Gallagher because he hasn't spoken to him after Ian confronted him on the rooftop post them being caught by Terry and he likes to keep it that way.

But after Gallagher confronts him about the wedding and about Mickey loving him, Mickey panics, jumps on Gallagher and zones out as his fists do the talking for him.

He stops when he notices that Gallagher is just lying there, taking hit after hit with a blank look on his face.

Mickey thinks that Gallagher is a lot of things, but a bitch that takes a hit lying down isn't one of them. So he stops and looks at Ian's face and notices that the blank look is still present. He taps his cheeks a couple of times before giving it a good slap.

Ian's expression doesn't change. It's like he's not there or he's shut down.

Before he full on freaks out, Mickey takes off because the sight of Gallagher's blank face and the bubbling guilt building in his gut because of the fact that the forming bruises on the Ginger's face are his doing are making his stomach roll.

He runs and doesn't look back.

Ian blinks a couple of times, stands up and walks home. He feels happy and he doesn't know why.

He gets home and Fiona asks about his face and he has no answer to give her.

He feels happy and doesn't know why. He has cuts on his face and he doesn't know why.

Ian doesn't even care anymore.

Ian can't break because he doesn't have that liberty.

It's how it was, how it is and how it always will be.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is my first ever fanfiction so please be gentle! Other than that, this story is un-betad and this is me announcing that I am looking for a beta partner! So if there is anybody out there who would like to help me with this, I'd be forever grateful****J****! Send me a message if you're interested! **

**Other than that please READ AND REVIEW! It's the fuel that's needed to keep the story going as well as constructive criticism is always welcome! ****J**

**You can also find me on tumblr: **

**Hope you enjoyed it! **


	2. Baby Boy and Baby Blues

~  
Ian smiles and all is well.  
Ian smiles and all is well.  
Ian smiles and all is well.

Lip thinks that Ian's life has turned into a beautiful train-wreck. Chaotic to the core but impossible to stop or turn away from.

He thinks that there was just so long that his brother could keep the complicated piece of machinery on the rails and conduct it to a safe base before it violently crashed and burned to the ground (You can't look away).

So that's exactly what Lip does. He stands on the sidelines and watches the chaos and destruction that goes up in black smoke and fire with Ian in the centre silently screaming his lungs out for help (Somebody fucking help.). Lip's choking on the smoke and he can't do any fucking thing but look.

Lip looks and Ian burns.

Ian's world comes crashing down not with a bang but with a low sizzle that drags itself across his skin and down his back for a painfully extended period of time.

It's like he's been shoved down on a carpet, and someone has taken a hold of his ankles, pulling him harshly down the frayed piece of fabric. The carpet burn starts after a while and the longer he's being dragged down, the more painful it is. It leaves his skin red, raw and sensitive to the touch.

For Ian it happens like this.

He wakes up one morning feeling an overwhelming sense of panic, hate, anger and so much guilt. It feels like he's going to choke on the emotions and he can't recall anything from his dreams besides jet black hair and baby blue eyes placed on porcelain skin.

Ian feels out of control to the point where he thinks that he might jump out of his body and escape because it's so unbearable. There's too much pain and too much hate and too much anger and too much guilt (guilt, guilt, guilty as charged) and he doesn't fucking know why. It's too much, too fucking much that for a second his throat constricts on itself and he can't even fucking breathe.

Ian is a practical guy if nothing else. He closes his eyes and does a countdown.

Nine  
(Let it go baby boy)  
Eight  
(Blue, blue the bluest of them all)  
Seven  
(Why, why, why fucking why?)  
Six  
(Don't panic, it's over)  
Five  
(It's not there)  
Four  
(It's not real)  
Three  
(Isn't it?)  
Two  
(Fucking isn't it?)  
One  
(Baby boy…go back to sleep)

~  
(Let it be known that as much bullshit as Frank Gallagher spews between his drunken soliloquies and schizophrenic dialogues, the man sometimes conjures up a once of truth. "Ian, incredible work ethic". True, true and maybe even too true. Ian has a magnificent work ethic, a too magnificent work ethic. If he does something he never does it in halves. All or nothing. Black or white. An extremist to the core.

If Ian does something he will do it too well. Hence, if Ian has decided to suppress an aspect of his life that's torn his ribcage open and shred his heart in his own chest leaving the blood to freely flow down and drench him red, he will do it to the best of his capabilities.

Frank was right. Too bad he was right about something this destructive.)

~  
"Ian, aren't you gonna eat that?" Fiona asks as she stares at her brothers barely touched pancake. The syrup has been very neatly scrubbed off the spongy delicacy and neatly stored at the bottom left side of his plate while the pancake itself sits on the top right.

Ian has cut a circular hole in the middle of the pancake that has a diameter maybe equivalent to the radius of the cake. That's the part he ate.

The rest of the pancake stays untouched.

Ian shakes his head and pushes his plate forward while simultaneously pushing his chair back to get up (multi-functioning is important to Ian).

He smiles at Fiona his sweet boy smile that says "All is well, don't you worry about it because it is" and walks past all his siblings and climbs up the stairs. His smile never falters. It's there with each step he takes. It's there when he reaches his room and plops down on his not- too soft bed. It's there when his stomach grumbles asking for more than what measly amount it was given. It's there like it's been carved on his face with a scalpel. It's permanent and stretched. His gums hurt, his lips hurt, his face hurts (his heart is ok though because that never hurts). The smile never ever falters.

Ian smiles and all is well. For him and for everybody else.  
(He's fooled the whole world and he's fooled himself. All the world is a stage baby boy: play your part well and you might survive till curtain call).

~  
Ian's days start like this. It's an unbroken routine.

He wakes up choking on his own spit and bile and runs to the toilet to empty his stomach. When his forehead is rested against the cold tiles of the bathroom the second attack hits him. It's brutal and unforgiving and it leaves him gasping for air, but the rancid stench that he might even be imagining makes his throat convulse even more. Ian feels like he's going to puke out his intestines and scratch off his skin.  
He feels the same anger, hate, vulnerability and guilt that he feels every morning when he wakes up from another dream of the bluest eyes he's ever seen and a silver of porcelain skin covered in a myriad of black, purple, pink and yellow bruises. He thinks he might have seen a smile somewhere as well but overall it's a grotesque picture.

Ian holds his breath and does a countdown starting from nine. As the countdown ends, he forgets the eye's he's seen in his dreams and the emotions that literally make him throw up are pleasantly absent. Once he feels like he's in control of his own limbs, he climbs into the shower and scrubs at his skin until it's red and raw. He brushes his teeth for nine minutes until his gums are bleeding and he spits blood out with the white foam. He feels better. He looks in the mirror and smiles.

This is how Ian's days always start and it's a cycle that he can't break out off.

Ian can't break because he doesn't have that liberty.

It's how it was, how it is and how it always will be.


End file.
